Desperado
by Steamwagon
Summary: Graves, The Outlaw learns the difference between redemption and revenge. Graves-centric largely character driven, mostly about his interactions with champions as well as his adventures. Rating is likely to change as the story goes on.


"Thatsh a-maaazing!" Ezreal slurred, his words followed by a smack of stale beer as they crossed the table. Malcom Graves was no stranger to life-or-death struggles, abandoned at birth to scrape for himself in the bedlam of Bilgewater he liked to think that his whole life had been one, so his first match in the dog and pony show called The League of Legends had been more of a reunion with an old friend than anything else. The new things being picked up quickly before falling into the old banter of amicability. Graves thought he'd done well for himself his first match minus a few hiccups, hell, he'd never seen a man come back after snuffing him but he was comfortable enough with the concept to be sharing a drink with one of his enemies after the match had been wrapped up. Though, Graves thought with a smirk of amusement, the noises the fair haired youth had made with a barrel's worth of lead festering in his stomach had been just about as legible as the ones he made when his gut was full of ale.

"Shoo yer tell-telling me" Ez drawled, leaning over the table that separated them to ensure he could be heard over the din of the pub. "Yer tellin' me that you thish-thish-thish," Ezreals smile dimmed as he tried to clear the fog around his memory, "Priggsh!" the revelation was punctuated by a snap of his fingers and an unfocused chuckle, "Thish Priggsh guy'sh wife on a pleashure cruishe fer a week an' made 'im pay fer it? Thatsh clashic, man. Washn't he pished at all?" Graves grinned at the memory, the week he'd spent with the Zaunite's wife had been some of the best times of his life and always made for a good bar story, though he liked to skirt around what Priggs had done to repay him. Even looking back on the decade he'd spent in a private prison made the outlaw feel like he'd swallowed a fistful searing shot, he avoided the betrayal preceding that. A slippery slope to go down, especially when lubricated with alcohol. Grinning he nodded in confirmation, "Reckon that's about the short of it." his voice rumbled out, an undertone to another spat of drunken giggling from the seat across the table.

Graves liked Ez, from what he could tell the kid was clever, kind, and a special sort of earnest, all qualities the older man could admire, if not reciprocate. Five pints in, however, he was none of those things. Instead, he was a blustering lightweight with a cocksure attitude and a grating laugh, the kind of mark Graves would've had down to his longjohns in two hands were this the real world. Instead of fleecing him like a lost ewe the gunslinger had to settle for mentally replaying Destiny pulping the youth's head over and over while he drank the explorer so far under the table the boy should've found some catacombs to scamper off into by now. Deciding that if he got Ezreal any more drunk he'd be partly responsible for whatever the youth did next Graves scanned the riotous crowd of champions swelling the beer hall, his glare finding a quck way to pawn the Explorer off. "Ain't that the filly you were tellin' me about, Ezreal?" Graves said, cutting off the boys story of some cave or ruin he'd conquered to point to a light haired slip of a girl taking a seat with a bunch of dour-faced people, Demacians if Graves had ever seen some. "Lux!? Where?" Ezreal's bleary gaze searched the crowd of people, finding his mark he glanced back at Graves, "Her shtupid brother'sh right there, along with half of shtupid Demashia, I dunno man. Should I do it? I-I think I should!" Ez stood up shakily, the beer making a fawn of him, turning to face Graves he sent him a smile beaming with alcoholic glow, "Nishe meeting you . . . man." He finished lamely before stumbling into the press of bodies. Graves didn't mind his name being forgotten, he was used to it, as much of a wanderer as he was. All the sudden he was alone, a bubble of clam in the eye of the inebriated maelstrom.

It was a familiar position for Graves, to be the shadowed stranger in the smoky corner table. He and Fate used to scout out bars for hours from places like the one he occupied now, pegging regulars and new faces, learning the difference between an alcoholic's binge and the self-pitying quaff of a jilted lover. Graves caught himself slipping into the old habit and allowed it, felt like putting on your favorite boots after breaking in new ones. The Beerhall had filled up fast between the end of his first match and now, the room packed to the rafters with a motley of people -and he doubted they could all be called people- from all corners of Runeterra. Diminutive yordles drank with men that dwarfed even Graves' large frame, He thought he saw a monkey trying to ply a purple-skinned satyr. . . thing with some liquor while a fish with legs tried to cop a feel from a white-haired yordle with the scars of a fighter, he even spied Ezreal, clawing at the giant, Demacian gauntlet around his neck, face purple and legs kicking feebly in the air. It seemed that a bar was a bar even when full of some of the most powerful beings on Runeterra.

For a moment, nothing had changed; he was still fresh off the saddle in the next town over scoping out some suckers and trading insults and laughter with his best friend. Free to go to bed under the stars with a foxweed cigarette and a strange woman to keep him warm, he'd never slept sounder than when he was back to back with Fate. Just them against the world, no more concerns than who they were gonna con dinner off of tomorrow and which of them was buying the next round. He'd have died, then, for things to be like they used to be. To be young again and running the gamut of the world's low places with nothing to depend on but himself and the most steadfast companion he'd ever known. He wouldn't have hesitated to call the cardmaster family, the only he'd ever had. Funny how the best friends made the worst enemies. He'd waited for years for Fate to break him out of the damned root cellar that Priggs had stuffed him into, just like he'd jumped the cardmaster out of the lockup countless times, hoping that Fate was playing Priggs for the long con, hoping that he'd come back and they'd drink away Graves' reward laughing over how they'd played the damn fool Zaunite once again. He'd held out hope until word got out about a new mage fighting in the league with a penchant for cards and a gypsy's name.

"Damn fool." Graves growled to himself, draining his mug and standing, his chair clattering against the wall. "Drinking alone and gettin' soft, look at you." Leaving warmth and noise of the bar behind he strode purposefully into the darkness, as if he could somehow walk quickly enough that his memories would lose the scent and stop nipping at his heels. Back straight and head down Graves hoped nobody could see the burning tears bleeding from his eyes like down wax down a candle.

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Author's Note: So. . . sorry if it sucks, I'm really out of practice with writing so at least the quality of the story should improve the longer it goes on. I'd love some constructive criticism. Not sure what I'm gonna do with this story, could end up being a romance, could be an adventure. Could have more citrus than a roadside lemonade stand, who knows?


End file.
